


Baited Breath

by avyssoseleison



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Body Worship, Bottom Dean, But This (Along with the Rating) Will Likely Change WIth Further Additions, Claiming, Creature Castiel, Discussions of Death (As Dean is mortal and Cas is not), Dom Castiel, Gentle Dom Castiel, Human Dean, Light Dom/sub, M/M, No Actual Sexual Content In The First Chapter, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possessive Castiel, Possessive Dean, Praise Kink, Sick Dean, Sub Dean, Taking Care Of Dean, Top Castiel, Vampire Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-03 21:30:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2888600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avyssoseleison/pseuds/avyssoseleison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is the mortal consort of a vampire named Castiel, and both of them are pretty bad at communicating properly and at giving in to what they really want, but somehow, they still make it work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baited Breath

**Author's Note:**

> No, it's not a typo.

Even though Dean knows there is nothing for him to be afraid of, he still flinches when Cas’ fangs sink deeply and smoothly into the flesh of his neck. His flinching doesn’t have much of an effect, though, because he is pressed against the back of the sofa, one of Cas’ hands around his waist, the other holding Dean’s, almost like in dancing, but as gentle as it looks, Cas’ grip is still inhumanely strong and renders Dean unable to be anything but still.

Unwillingly, Dean whimpers, his eyes half-lidded and glassy; which is less because of the loss of blood and more because of the helplessness of the whole situation. Cas has done this so many times already, uncountably often, but the sharp pain to his system and the knowledge that Dean has offered himself up to a predator who is now actually taking him up on that offer, with no means of escape for Dean, still make his heart race.

Maybe he only feels that way because his head has been fuzzy all day; but he didn’t want to tell Cas. Instead, he rather endures his heart hammering against his chest and his ears rushing.

Cas notices, of course, seeing as the picking up pumping of Dean’s heart must make the blood fill his mouth all the faster. Which must be why he pulls away for a moment, kissing the punctuation marks and shushing Dean against his warm skin. Soft words slowly filter into Dean’s ears, but he can’t really get a proper grip on them, or anything at all. It’s only when Cas also starts rubbing up and down the small of Dean’s back that the he notices that he has started trembling. Cas backs off even further after a firm kiss against his neck and looks at Dean in concern, his brow creased and his mouth stained red.

"We can stop anytime if you want to, Dean. You know that."

Dean presses his lips into a thin line and shakes his head. Sometimes it’s still scary, yeah, but he also likes it; likes that he can take care of Cas like that, that Cas depends on him, that Cas does not just _want_ him like this, but _needs_ him. Just because he’s not feeling really up to it today doesn’t mean they should stop — he would only feel the worse for it. “I’m fine; go ahead,” Dean breathes out.

"Are you certain? You do look pale; more so than usual. If you are not physically well enough, it would be unwise to continue." It probably should be weird to hear a guy with bloody lips say that, but Cas’ casual concern is so familiar that it calms Dean quite a bit. Cas lets go of Dean’s hand and combs it through his human’s slightly damp hair, sweeping it out of his forehead. "Your well-being is what’s most important."

"Yeah, I know. Don’t worry, just getting into the right headspace." He playfully lifts his eyebrows. "If you know what I mean."

"Dean, this is serious. We have talked about this and—"

"I get it, I’m just joking and—"

"This is no joking matter, Dean, I have told you about what happened once with my former—"

"Cas, _please,”_ Dean cuts in, sharply now, really not in the mood for the skeltons in Cas’ closet, especially not those that still make Cas’ face fall and Dean’s blood surge. “Trust me.”

Castiel frowns at him, and it’s obvious that he is warring with the decision to give in to Dean’s plea and his conception of what would be best for him. But like always, he eventually caves; with a soft sigh, he strokes his hand down the back of Dean’s head, letting it rest there as a cold and steady weight, and presses soft kisses beneath his ear.

"If you have lied to me, I will not feed from you for a year, Dean."

"Yeah," Dean shudders out, the feeling of gentle lips at one of his most sensitive points almost too much, "Yeah, okay."

Castiel hums and lets his lips wander lower, back to where the skin was still pierced and smeared with red. “I hope you know what you are doing. I trust you.”

"I trust you, too."

Dean drifts off after only a few gulps, and he barely even takes notice of it. It’s then that he thinks this might have been a bad idea, that he should have listened to Cas, but the moment he forms this thought, the sensation of fangs piercing his skin already fades. There are kisses again and hands against his neck and forehead and at some point, he thinks he hears Cas swearing out an annoyed, “Damn it, Dean,” and gently beeing scooped up, but after that, everything turns gray, turns black.

*

The whole world is nothing but a haze, a shifting of sounds and recurring whiteness and falling back into the darkness, and there seems to be nothing more than sudden, loud sounds and soft, deep rumbles and the sensation of burning up and of cold spots, hands maybe, sliding over his skin, his face and his neck and the body that seems detached from him, and Dean believes he might be dying. And that thought is scary to him, at times, but a blessing at others.

He doesn’t know for how long this goes on; it might have been days or years that he was drifting in and out of consciousness – he wouldn’t even have realized that he was doing so, that this state of floating was not his natural one, until the day his eyes flutter open and his surroundings are finally sharp and clear to him once again.

He takes a deep breath, suddenly thankful that he still can, and it takes him a moment to register where he is: in the bedroom Cas and he share. He is covered with blankets and dressed in what must be a dress shirt, going by the sleeves that are visible to him over the blanket, and on their nightstand are two bowls and a couple of cups and towels. He stares at the towels, some of which are messy and obviously used, and he doesn’t feel capable of doing much else for a long moment, to fixate his gaze instead of staring at the towels and at nothing at the same time, and to make sense of what happened.

He only returns back to proper functioning when he hears the click of the bedroom door opening, followed by a soft sound of surprise and steps leading up to the bed. By the time Dean manages to turn around towards the door, Castiel is already by his bedside, suddenly between Dean and the bowls, staring down at him with his jaw slack and his eyes wide and they are shining a bit more than usual. He looks pale – for a vampire, that is – and worn, as if he has lived even longer than he already did, as if recent events had torn and pressed at him, making him ashen and lifeless – also, more so than usual.

Dean doesn’t even know whether his thoughts are meant as weak jokes or simple facts.

"You’re awake," Castiel observes, clenching his hands into fists while hungrily taking in Dean’s face and neck, flickering over the visible skin of him without trying to hide it.

That’s a vampire for you.

Dean, who has become an expert on reading Castiel, the slight shifts in his demanour and voice and even the way he stares at him, easily detects the relief and awe in him, but there’s also something else there, something less pleasant, hidden in the shadows of his eyes and the clenched palms of his hands.

“I am,” Dean confirms eventually, slow like molasses, and only because he has to remind himself that people usually react to something that has been said. It’s then that he notices that he must be still a bit out of it, that the way his dress shirt clings in sweat that has gone cold has nothing to do with fear or anything the like, but with how he must have been feverish for long enough that Castiel changed his clothes into his own and that the leftovers of this fever are still present.

There is a deep crease burrowing itself between Castiel’s eyebrows, and his lips are pressed together in what must be suppressed anger, and it’s this that tells Dean that the time he was out of it must have been pretty long. Long enough for Cas to become more than annoyed, more than that he might worry, but enough that his worry turned into fear turned into anger – and his anger was often directed at himself, but in this case, it might very much have been directed at Dean only.

This is the thought that makes Dean’s stomach turn when Cas suddenly lifts a hand, and for one moment, Dean expects him to strike him with it or to grip him and shake him or to claim the price he could surely demand for taking care of Dean for so long, for tending to his feverish body, with Dean offering neither blood nor his body in return.

Castiel doesn’t, though. The moment his hands uncurl and reach out, Dean notices a slight tremble running through them, and when they come into contact with Dean, they are gentle. They caress his clammy skin, so tenderly as if Cas expects him to break any given moment, and this, coupled with the whole bunch of negative emotions flitting over Castiel’s face, makes Dean drop his gaze.

In the shame that only comes with the knowledge that he hurt someone close to him.

But Cas is having none of it; he cups Dean’s face with one hand, the touch pleasantly cool and welcomed, softly tilting it up to look back at him, while he grabs Dean’s shoulder with the other, to keep him upright. Dean has no chance but to look him in the eye, and the gravity he sees in there makes him gulp. Makes him expect Cas to say something serious and final, to chastise him first and then send him on his merry way, because who would need a sickly and useless human whom he couldn’t even feed from? Maybe Castiel sees the fear of being abandoned, of finally having reached the point of no return, in Dean’s face, because his eyes soften and he starts rubbing tiny little circles with his thumb into the skin of Dean’s cheek and his voice is even and gentle when he speaks.

“Your mind is clear. You can finally hold my gaze again.” He is still searching Dean’s face, assessing his well-being, most likely. Dean feels even more ashamed for it.

"Yeah. Uhm, how— long was I out?" he asks, and he probably shouldn’t have, because even though Castiel was gentle just a moment ago, before that he had been pissed off, and it’s obvious that Dean reminds him of his own anger with this question. Castiel stops with the little circles into Dean’s skin and licks over his lips.

"Two weeks."

"What?" Dean sputters. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Castiel narrows his eyes. “I can assure you, I am most definitely not. During the last time you have offered your neck to me, your whole body suddenly heated up and you became unresponsive to anything I said, and almost immediately, you developed a high fever.” Castiel looks down over Dean’s lips and where his hand is resting on his cheek and shakes his head. “A very high one, life-threatingly so.”

“Shit,” Dean curses, because even though he had gotten that he must have been feverish, there was no way for him to realize how bad it really was. That he almost kicked the bucket.

“Yes,” Castiel confirms, but with no humour. “I thought I would lose you. I thought I had lost you already. You didn’t react to my voice, you didn’t look at me, at anyone. You could barely swallow the water I gave you, and every night, I was certain you would not live to see the morning.” Almost imperceptibly, his grip on Dean’s shoulder tightens. “You called out for me, but didn’t react when I answered you. It took you a week to even make a sound in response to my voice. I had to ask Balthazar to come here and help me with healing you. He helped me keep your fever at bay and to keep you alive.”

“Urgh, Balthazar? Is he here? Please tell me that douche also didn’t help you change my clothes.”

Castiel’s eyes flash dangerously, and it’s the only thing Dean even halfway registers before his back hits the mattress and he is being pressed back into it, with a majorly pissed-off vampire looming over him. The hand on his shoulder is keeping him fixed while the other one has slid from Dean’s cheek to his neck, a reminder of what Cas is and what Dean is and that the human should rather keep still.

When Castiel speaks again, his voice is a growl, “No, Balthazar did not see nor touch your bare body, but had it been necessary for him to save you, I would have allowed him to do so. Would have allowed him to insert any of the suppositories himself, had this been the only means of keeping you alive. I would have allowed him to touch you freely, to do what he must, because neither your shame nor my claim reigns higher than your life.”

Dean feels hot under the cold body above him and with the sweat that is chilled on his skin, but that is nothing new. He stares up at Cas, who is visibly angry and frustrated and way too close. He looks like me might still either punch or fuck Dean, given the right incentive, and Dean doesn’t know which one he’d prefer and which incentive would even be right, so he goes for a careful smirk and a bad joke. “What about bodily autonomy?”

Dean still isn’t sure what exactly his words make Castiel wish to do, because Cas presses his lower body that had been kept out of contact with Dean down on him, pushing him even deeper into the mattress, but Cas is neither hard nor grinding into him, so it might not be meant in a sexual way. But then again, Castiel has never liked simply taking from Dean without his consent or enthusiasm, so it probably shouldn’t be much of a surprise that he’s not looking to fuck a guy who must look like hell warmed over and couldn’t put up any of a fight if he wanted to.

Though Dean can’t deny that the weight of Cas is making _him_ feel warm again, but not in the feverish way. Sue him, he’s come to associate that weight with either getting fucked or cuddled, and Cas doesn’t look like he’s in the mood for cuddling.

“Given that you were unable to make any decisions concerning your body for yourself and that you have given yourself into my care, any kind of autonomy over your body was my responsibility.” He doesn’t look particularly pleased by this. “Furthermore, going by the negligence with which you have proven to treat your body, giving you sole control of your body is not something I would consider a good idea.”

“You got something to say?”

“You have almost _died_ , Dean,” Cas snarls. “Despite having been in less-than-ideal condition, you let me feed on you, which only far worsened your health. I saw you wither away before my very eyes. Your body must have already been fighting against the sickness and I considerably weakened it, by taking away blood that your body needed to recover while simultaneously fending off the fever. And if you would have died, it would have been because _I_ had weakened you so, it would have been my fault for not taking notice of your health earlier, for leading you to your demise. It would have been _me_ who would have killed you.”

Dean is stunned into speechlessness for a moment. “Jesus. You— you don’t actually believe that, do you?”

The pain deeply etched into Cas’ features is answer enough.

“Shit, Cas, no, that’s not… that’s not true. Jesus. That would have been on me. It was my dumb ass that told you to go on and didn’t even mention that I wasn’t feeling all that up to it. You’re not my mom, it’s not your job to baby me.”

This doesn’t seem to make Cas’ expression any less painful. He stares at Dean and then his hand, resting on the side of Dean’s neck, gently stroking it. “I should have taken care of you like your mother could not. You have entrusted yourself to me, do so every time I feed or we lie with each other, and it is part of my responsibility to watch over you.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Would you not consider it your responsibility to do the same for me? Is your drive to take care of me not what has made you not tell me that you were feeling unwell, so that I would still feed and be as healthy as I can be?”

Dean opens his mouth, but for a moment, nothing comes out. Seems like the vampire knows him even better than he thought he did. “You figured that one out? I mean, it, uh, might have been one of my thoughts that moment, yeah.”

Castiel begins to caress the spot on Dean’s neck where his pulse is closest to the surface and beating most perceptibly, where the skin is supposed to have been scarred over, but isn’t. It’s just as sensitive as before he ever met the vampire, though it holds a lot more meaning now, in an extremely intimate way — because not only is each feeding a matter of life and death, an exercise of complete trust for Dean, but it’s also where Cas loves to sink his fangs into when Dean is coming and his blood is enriched by endorphins and it’s the most delicious for Castiel. He never takes much more than a few drops in these instances, when both his fangs and his cock are buried inside Dean, but Cas considers it a special treat, something that pleasantly floods all of his senses, as he has told Dean many times. Dean only knows that it’s the thrill and the slight pain and how Cas keeps him fixed and fucks him even harder that make his own orgasm even better, so it’s win/win for both of them.

Castiel brings him back to reality with a solemn, “I had a lot of time to think. It was difficult for me to understand why you would willingly take such a risk, but with the help of Balthazar and all those hours by your bedside, I eventually realized.”

Dean heaves out a deep breath and feels his torso deflating. “‘m sorry, Cas. It won’t happen again.” Might as well apologize now, when Cas isn’t that angry and when he looks like he might start crying at any second. Not that vampires can cry — at least Dean has never seen Cas do so, not really. Though he did see his eyes water, several times during sex, and the blood replaces pretty much all of his bodily fluids and keeps his body functioning, so it might be possible.

“Yes, it won’t happen again,” Castiel says with a kind of determination that Dean likes about as much as the fact that he doesn’t even address his apology. “This absolutely cannot happen again.” Cas shakes his head, making Dean softly shake with it. “I won’t feed from you for a year.”

“What?” Dean makes to sit up in outrage, but the hand on his shoulder and Castiel’s body keep him down. As does his hardened gaze.

“I told you I wouldn’t when I tried to feed from you last time, or have you forgotten that in your fever haze?”

“That’s bullshit, Cas! You won’t be able to go a whole year without feeding, and you— or do you… are you telling me to fuck off? Or that you’ll get someone else? Is that it, yeah? I’m finally through?” The thought makes his stomach drop, but then again, could he really blame Cas for it? What would he want with a guy who’s not much of a companion, much less a mate? Who must bore him to literal death at times, and who’s only good for feeding and fucking? If he can’t even feed from him, he’s pretty much useless. People who’d love to get it on with someone as attractive as Cas litter the streets, so the fucking could get taken care of somewhere else, easily, and the feeding might come pretty quickly, too, nowadays. Most people are more open to the ideas of vampires. He doesn’t need Dean for that, not really.

Castiel bares his teeth and makes a low, displeased sound. “When I told you that I want to be with you, and only you, until your last breath, I did not say so lightly, Dean. But I would prefer your last breath to be only in the distant future, in many decades’ time. Not one of these days. Not almost a week ago.” He clenches his eyes closed, just for a moment. “I have to be able to trust you, that you trust me and that you take care of your body. Of _yourself_ , first and foremost. Who is to say that you won’t do anything like this again? Or that you will yield to my desires even though you do not truly want to, but because you aim to please, to take care of me? I thought we had gotten so far with when it comes to you expressing what it is you want and what you are capable of, at any given moment and in general. And this far extends beyond the borders of our bedroom, Dean. If you cannot tell me when you are in pain or sickness, I can’t keep feeding on you. I fear what might happen next time — what has almost happened this time. If I can’t trust you to take care of yourself and to fully trust me, I cannot take that risk. Not again.”

“That’s not true!” Dean blurts out, even faster than that he could formulate what exactly about this could be deemed ‘not true’. “I do trust you, you know that. Man, I just didn’t realize I was feeling _that_ under the weather — I would’ve told you otherwise, promise.”

“I don’t think I can believe you. And even if I do, it makes it all the worse, because it means that you are not able to honestly gauge the limits of your body. Which is problematic.”

“Yeah, okay, so I felt bad and all, but it’s the first time you fed on my while I wasn’t in top condition. Now we know how that pans out and it means that I can tell you in the future if I’m not completely up to it, and it won’t happen again. ‘s a good thing.”

“This is far from a ‘good thing’, Dean. You have been living in your body for almost two and a half decades now, you should have been able to tell me even without this happening.”

“Shit, sometimes you gotta find something out to know it. That’s how people grow, man. Humans, y’know? Gotta experience something first-hand, and then you know.”

“Yes, I know how you humans think that this is a rational and commendable approach, and I have seen the results of it countless times already.” Castiel sounds like he wants to snarl and lecture Dean for it, but instead, he simply scoffs. “Would you also apply this to your mental health? That we could explore and experience how you would react to feeding when you are not ‘feeling up to it’ once again, just mentally? This one experiment almost brought about your death, I wonder if the next one might lead to insanity.”

“Way to be a drama queen, Cas.”

“I do think I am entitled to, given that I was almost witness to your decease.”

Involuntarily, Dean flinches. He feels the fight go out of him by the artificially flat tone of Castiel’s voice, as if he is schooling it into not giving way to what he really feels, and if he does that, it means it must have hit him really hard. Which probably shouldn’t be surprising to Dean – but how could he have expected that the almost-death of a measly human could actually, in the end, be something Castiel would really care about?

“I just— I don’t want you to feed from anyone else, or go get blood from the hospital. I, uh, I like it when you drink from me.” More than that does he like the connection and the dependency and the intimacy. He likes to be trembling, just so, before the predator starts to devour him, in one way first, then subsequently the other, sometimes both at the same time. It might be a bit like nursing, as weird as that comparison might sound, and like taming a beast and like giving back to someone he loves who has given him already. Dean likes to have Cas feed from him sure as hell as much as the vampire does, and his reasons for that might be not entirely politically correct or even sane, but they are still true. They are what make him bare his throat beneath Castiel, in an act of desperation, and offer up his sensitive flesh and the racing pulse with a soft, “Please.”

Castiel obviously can’t help but follow the line of Dean’s throat with his eyes, and Dean can see his pupils widen and the usually hidden fangs become longer and visible when he grimaces and stops in his motion to lean forward. He stares down at Dean, taking deep breaths that Dean knows are neither necessary nor meant to bring lungs into his system, but to scent his willing prey.

Castiel licks his lips and closes his eyes for a moment, for another deep breath. When he opens them again, he seems torn between desire and frustration and the softening features of affection.

“I will have to make use of the hospital, Dean. I won’t drink from anyone else, but I will have to sustain my existence. Of course, I would prefer to drink from you…” with his thumb, he slides down from Dean’s bottom lip over his throat, to come to a rest at the little pit where his collar bones and throat come together, “… but that’s not an option now.”

“Cas,” Dean whines, because he knows what kind of effect it has on him. He presses up against where their hips meet, rubbing against him, and looks up at Castiel with pleading eyes. “I need you. _Please._ ”

Castiel’s eyes darken in the way that usually means pleasant trouble for Dean, that speak of how much he would like to ravish him, but he only shakes his head again. “No, Dean. Don’t tempt me,” he chastises, but he keeps his hips still very much connected with Dean’s, grinding back against them so faintly that Dean wonders whether Cas himself is even aware of doing so. “This is nothing that’s up for negotiation now. You forfeited that right with our last feeding.”

The lurching in Dean’s stomach is something he has grown accustomed to, but it’s still something of a surprise. It’s a reminder of being cast aside many times before, of being thrown away once useless. Rationally, Dean knows that that is not what he is to Cas, that he must be more for him, but that still doesn’t mean he feels nausea welling up inside him, and also the need to revert back to his childish ways.

“No, I get it, Cas: you don’t need me, too,” Dean continues, like a particularly bone-headed and pouty child with the inability to state things differently, and turns away from Cas and his hand with a huff, baring his throat rapidly and completely without even meaning to.

In an instant, Castiel is fully pressing down on him, his face buried in Dean’s neck, helplessly licking over the skin of Dean’s throat with wide and greedy stripes, making the same kind of pleased and deep and animalistic noises he can’t help but make whenever he is buried in Dean, twofold.

Dean moans in surprise, his hands coming up to weakly clench at the sleeves of Castiel’s shirt. “ _Cas._ ”

And it’s not a request to stop, not a way to get him to back off, but Cas must misunderstand, because as fast as he came onto him, he’s backing off again, even if he’s not as far away as before anymore. He awkwardly hovers above Dean, his expression full of lust for everything Dean has to offer, but he’s also frowning deeply.

 _“Dean_ ,” he says, pissed off once again. And damn, maybe Dean isn’t the only one closer to a child than an adult.

“Ah, didn’t mean to. Sorry, wasn’t tryin’ to, honest,” Dean replies, his hips still in motion against Castiel’s, until the vampire grinds back one, two times, harshly and with a small moan, and then heaves himself up on his hands and knees above Dean, away from the other one’s hips.

The cool saliva on his neck makes Dean dizzy in his want. He assumes it must be the same for Cas, who can smell and see it, his scent layering over Dean’s thickly, because it takes him a while to rip his gaze away from his throat and to look back at Dean, who smiles sheepishly and in a faint sense of victory.

“You sure you don’t want a taste of that for a whole year?”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “I would gladly spend eternity tasting nothing else, but that’s simply not possible. Neither in the near nor the distant future.”

This stirs something in Dean, arguments and discussion they have had so often now, to no proper end. “You could have both, you know.”

“No. I won’t take those risks.” It’s nothing Dean hasn’t heard before, and he knows that Cas is unwilling to. But that doesn’t mean he is.

“I will.”

“Which is exactly why I won’t.” Castiel slumps in his perching over Dean, and it’s apparent that he must be exhausted — he requires only little sleep, but it’s likely that he had even too little of that, especially until Balthazar arrived. They live alone, secluded as much as is possible, and Cas must have been the only one who was able to take care of Dean at first. And Dean’s pretty sure that even with Balthazar here, Cas didn’t allow him to do much more than the barest minimum of what was necessary to ensure Dean’s well-being, taking care of the rest himself. Cas is possessive like that.

“Cas.”

“Dean, please. Not now. Just…” Both of his hands slide over Dean’s body, caresses on their way to cupping his face, gently. Cas leans back down, resting his forehead against Dean’s, inhaling Dean’s scent deeply — and for a moment, Dean realizes that he must smell pretty disgusting, after sweating and whatnot for two weeks. But Cas always seems weirdly fond of human odour, no matter how repulsive, which must be a vampire thing, so maybe he even likes what he can scent right now. He certainly doesn’t pull back or scrunch up his face, he only holds Dean’s gaze, and this time, it’s him who looks pleading. “Can we just have this for a moment? We can talk later if you want to, I promise, but right now…”

Dean still feels the exhaustion of his fever settled deeply into his bones, and the feeling of Castiel’s cool body and his soft touches is actually a nice contrast to the burning he still remembers feeling all over his skin. He doesn’t want to have this discussion right now, not really, and he guesses Cas deserves to have some time to revel in Dean being alive and well again. And they are both physical enough that Dean knows Castiel would love to ensure himself with his own hands and lips of the aliveness of Dean, and it’s probably the least has earned himself within those last two weeks.

So Dean nods, softly, as not to make Cas move away from his forehead, and sighs. “Yeah, okay. Later. We’ll talk later.”

Castiel’s smile is small, but genuine. “Thank you. May I…?” He almost seems embarrassed by the request he doesn’t need to fully speak out, which is endearing but also unnecessary, because Dean gets it. He really does, and if he could, he would seek out the same, but he’s too weak to, now.

So he smiles in return and, once again, tilts up his chin in a clear invitation and murmurs, “Go right ahead.”

Cas immediately presses soft kisses against Dean’s lips and then wanders downwards, towards his throat. His lips and tongue are quickly all over it, lavishing where Dean smells especially strongly and where his heartbeat is most obvious, and Castiel is making those sounds of pleasure again. His hands roam over Dean’s shoulder and collarbones and his scalp, pleasantly scratching it, while he sucks mark after mark into his sensitive skin. His marking is interspersed with whispers of Dean’s name, like a plea, like a prayer of thanks, and he seems to become more greedy, more hungry, with each utterance of Dean’s name and with each hickey blooming on Dean’s skin.

Suddenly, it hits Dean how scared Cas really must have been; both of them know that there would be no happily-forever-after for them. That one day, Dean will die, sooner or later (though they have been clinging to the notion of ‘later’), unless Castiel should eventually give in to Dean’s request to take him as his mate, to make him fully and eternally his. The thought of leaving Cas alone, of him having to go through the heartbreak of losing someone so close to him again — which would be far worse this time, with Dean, if Cas is to be believed —, is terrible to Dean, even more than the thought of his own death.

He wants to stay with Cas, wants to be with him forever, but Cas doesn’t let him. He feeds from him, he fucks him, he has feelings for him, but whenever he latches onto Dean’s neck or wrist or the inside of his thigh, he only drinks, only takes, but doesn’t give, doesn’t inject his poison. Just like now he is only taking what he considers feasible, for Dean and his body, only marking him up and touching him innocently, not pushing into him in the life-affirming way his instincts surely tell him to. He takes care of Dean, like he did those last two weeks and those last two years, and Dean is sure that he will actually do so for as long as he promised, until Dean draws his dying breath.

Cas swirls his tongue over Dean’s pulse point and then is being followed by his lips who suck with a purpose, and with his hands buried in Dean’s hair and his soft noises interspersed with Dean’s filling the room, Dean wishes Cas would just take him up on his offer of _forever_.

**Author's Note:**

> It's like this: this is basically a verse I came up with like a or two week ago, and I will likely write more for it (mostly ficlets) and post it on [my blog](http://avyssoseleison.tumblr.com/) and, once I got enough written, also on here. But I can't promise properly working this out, more than sporadically, that is, which is why I put the status of the fic on Complete (might change later on). But I do think this can also stand on its own, in an open end-ish kinda way.


End file.
